


brutally honest

by melonpanparade



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbours, Jearmin Secret Santa, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 06:53:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3165497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonpanparade/pseuds/melonpanparade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean swears he’s heard the smoke alarm next door go off three times in the past fortnight. Wait, make that<i> four. </i>Honestly, how does that even happen?</p><p>Inspired by this apartment AU on <a href="http://melonpanparade.tumblr.com/post/107110918203">tumblr</a>: <i>Every time you cook you set off the smoke alarm so you know what I’m just going to teach you how to cook.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	brutally honest

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [jearmins-baby](http://jearmins-baby.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. It's summer for me at the moment, so I couldn't find it in myself to write about snow or hot chocolate. I hope the cheesiness and happy ending makes up for it, though! 
> 
> Jean is fresh out of university and Armin is in his final year.

Jean’s favourite pastime is lounging on his couch with his balcony door wide open, relishing the cool, evening breeze as it washes over him. He loves his new job, but there’s nothing better than coming back home to his one-bedroom apartment. The apartment is old and it’s farther to the city than what he had on campus last year, but it’s his. The twenty minute walk to the train station serves as good morning exercise (except for the mornings when he wakes up late, and then it becomes strenuous exercise because he’s forced to make it in twelve), he has trees in between his apartment building and the one adjacent, offering some semblance of privacy, and best of all, it’s quiet.                         

Well, it _was_ quiet—until that guy moved in next door, and Jean swears he’s heard the smoke alarm next door go off three times in the past fortnight. Wait, make that _four._ Honestly, how does that even happen?  

With a grunt, Jean sits up and stretches, listening to his neck make a satisfying crack. Perhaps it’s about time he visited his new neighbour.

 

* * *

 

As soon as Jean steps out into the hallway and closes the door behind him, the shrill sound of the smoke alarm subsides, but not completely. He knocks three times, and then realises whoever is in there probably can't hear him over the alarm, so he starts banging on the door with his fist.

There’s a loud thump and a yell before the door swings wide open, and a young man stands in front of Jean with a scarf wrapped around his mouth and nose, and a thin exercise book in one hand. Behind him, Jean can see a chair situated under the smoke alarm, and suddenly the loud thump and yell makes sense.

Great. His new next-door neighbour looks like he's fresh out of high school, a huge klutz, and cute as fuck. 

“Hey, I’m Jean from next door and—what the hell is that _smell?_ ”

Surely it’s not smoke. Smoke doesn’t smell that bad.

“Sorry, sorry,” his neighbour croaks, and then he’s overcome by a coughing fit, and Jean wonders whether the poor soul is going to hack out a lung. “I was just trying to cook dinner.”

“Is that what happened the three previous times?”

His neighbour looks down at his feet and nods.

“Right. You’d better tell me your name, because we’re going to see a lot more of each other from now on. Starting tomorrow, I’m coming over every night until you learn how to cook.”

“You’d really do that?”

“Anything to breathe fresh air again.”

 

* * *

 

Armin. His neighbour’s name is Armin, and if Jean didn’t know that there was such a thing as being _un_ talented at cooking, he definitely knows now. That’s not the only issue, though—Armin’s a pretty spacey kind of guy, and so he tends to lose focus. A lot. And before he’s realised it, he’s filled the saucepan with so much water it overflows, or he’s mistaken the sugar for salt, or he’s put an empty plate into the fridge.

“Honestly,” Jean says, while scouring what used to be egg from the bottom of the pan. Now it’s just a black crusty substance, and bloody impossible to clean out. “How did you manage your first two years living out of home?”

“Food was provided at the university dorms, and on weekends I’d visit my grandfather.”

“So why’d you move out? You still have one more year until you finish your degree, right?”

Armin shrugs. “I thought it’d be a good challenge. I don’t want to spend my whole life relying on others, so I thought living alone—really living alone—would be a good start.”

“That’s admirable,” Jean says, and he means it. It takes a lot of character to make that kind of decision and stick through with it. He spends a moment to rinse the pan free of the remnants and soap suds before asking, “If you don’t want to be reliant on others, why are you okay with me teaching you?”

“‘Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day; teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime’,” Armin quotes. “And… I’ve always been too chicken to go to cooking classes, so I was really happy when you offered to teach me.”

“Well, Armin, we’ve got a long way to go.”

 

* * *

 

A _very_ long way to go, Jean amends later. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so frustrated in his life.

“How many times do I have to tell you to curl your fingers up into a fist for chopping?”

“But it feels more natural like this.”

“It won’t be feeling natural once you chop off a finger and I’ll be taking you to the hospital for a quick sewing job.”

“Brutal.”

“Honest.”

As he watches Armin struggle to keep his fingers tightly bunched together to make the next slice, Jean reassess their progress over the past four weeks. They’ve been working on it every night, except for weekends when Armin visits his grandfather, and Jean’s beginning to think it’s probably overkill, and perhaps a bit ambitious. Well, at least he and Armin get along well when things aren’t on fire or phalanges are at stake.

After a moment’s consideration, he’s made his decision. “You know what, Armin? Let’s take a break tonight. Order pizza, maybe, and watch a movie at mine.”

“Really? That sounds great!”

“But you’ve got to finish making the salad first.”

“Damn it.”

 

* * *

 

It gets better after that. Teaching turns into practice, they alternate between the apartments, add a bit more variety into their meals and activities, and overall, evenings become more peaceful.

Except for the occasional odd one here or there.

“Armin! I’ve been in the toilet for half a bloody minute, and somehow you’ve managed to set the smoke alarm off already? It scared the shit out of me, and I’m not speaking figuratively!”

“I’m sorry!” Armin yells back. It’s hard to hear him over the bathroom fan _and_ the smoke alarm, but Jean certainly hopes Armin can hear him.

“If you don’t get that thing to shut up by the time I’m done, I’m gonna hit it until it breaks!”

Thankfully, for the safety of Armin and his smoke alarm, Armin manages to silence the alarm in record time.

“So, what happened this time?”

Armin just points to the pan with the spaghetti sauce.

“Well,” Jean says at last. “Looks like we’re using bottled sauce instead.”

 

* * *

 

Four months in, and Jean has a brainwave while they’re sitting cross-legged at Jean’s dining table, Mario Kart 8 completely forgotten in favour of having wollamssam for dinner. The variety of thinly sliced vegetables in front of them is a testament to how much Armin’s chopping has improved. Unfortunately, the same thing can’t be said when the stove or oven is involved. But Jean thinks he might be able to change that. 

“Your field of study is experimental chemistry, right?”

“Right.”

“Would it help if you think of cooking as an experiment?”

Armin’s head snaps up, and there’s that glint in his eyes that only appears when he’s thoroughly intrigued.

“I know what you’re thinking, and no, that’s not what I mean. Don’t just add whatever to whatever to make a concoction that will eventually explode or taste incredibly foul. If you treat cooking with the same precision and in particular, your focus, it may help you with your timing and flavouring. After all, you’ve already got the chopping part down pat.”

Surprisingly, it helps.

 

* * *

 

With Armin’s final exams coming up, and Jean’s work keeping him out until late, they’ve had to cancel Armin’s cooking practice. It feels strange not to see Armin for such a long period of time. And lonely. And, shit, that’s pining right there, isn’t it.

So Jean starts staying back later and later at work, pushing himself so he can get the project completed by the time Armin finishes his final exam, until one night he returns and finds a plate of rice and curry in front of his door. There’s a yellow post-it stuck on the cling wrap, which reads:

> _Dear Jean,_
> 
> _Good luck with work, and get some proper rest._
> 
> _Armin_

The first bite is awful, and it doesn’t get any better with the second bite. Armin’s cooking hasn’t tasted this bad since he learned how to channel his concentration into cooking, but, oh, Jean’s missed this awful taste, he really has. And more than anything, he just needs to see Armin right now. It’s a little past midnight, but there’s a high possibility Armin will still be awake. After all, the food is still warm.

He leaves the unfinished plate on the table and slips out of his apartment, still dressed in his work clothes. He knocks three times, and when Armin doesn’t open the door immediately, Jean starts rocking on the balls of his feet out of nervousness. Jean’s considering returning to his own apartment when the door swings open, and Armin stands there, staring at him in surprise.

Armin’s hair resembles a mop, his eye bags have bags, and he’s wearing the same scarf he did the first night Jean knocked on his door. Jean remembers thinking he looked cute as fuck—that hasn’t changed.

“Jean?”

It takes that one word for Jean to step forward and draw Armin close to him, close enough to smell traces of curry. Armin’s arms snake around Jean’s waist and after a moment’s hesitation he squeezes gently. 

“Does that mean the curry didn’t taste bad?”

“Nope,” Jean murmurs into Armin’s hair. “It was awful, still awful. But I missed it.”

Armin laughs. “And you’re brutal as always, but I missed that, too.”


End file.
